Our main babysitter is 23 years old. A gorgeous redhead with long legs and a nervous giggle, she's smart and kind and good and funny and so loved by the girls that they throw their arms around her whenever they see her anywhere. Even at St. James Gate where we went for a beer and a bite and they saw her saddled up to the bar on her laptop on a corner stool trying to people watch and hide from the crowds. I love her too. She feels so very familiar to me.
Recently, she has been cancelling our babysitting gigs at the last minute possible with lots of apologies and promises to do better and each time, rather than giving her the business. I gently explain to her how and why this is not acceptable, make other arrangements, and then check in on her a day or two later. I have talked her through break-ups, move outs, job searches, resume building, heartache, hospital stays, sending texts in the night when a thought comes into my mind. I want her to feel loved and cared for. She's 23. It's hard to know.
When I was 23, I found my poor soul at the end of one of the most important relationships of my life. While other bigger adults knew that this was par for the course, my imminent break up was consuming me, actually consuming me and I was achy and scrawny and scratchy and messy. I'd sent my belongings out to Colorado to move with him, where we'd live "as friends and roommates" because the shit was over and I had somehow agreed to that. I'd quit my job, the job procured with the help of one of my favorite people on earth, a college painting and drawing professor who really guided me in a way I'd not been in my life, and told everyone "So long, suckas!" And then backtracked. "What the f*** was I doing?" I had not thought this plan all the way through. I was going to MOVE to Colorado with my once boyfriend/love of my life, now roommate/pal/friend/what and live there? Maybe this really did require some tears and some sense and somebody help me. I was a tortured mess. Walked all over Boston from one end to the next in the heat of the summer, eating only grapes and Cheerios, taking the occasional psychedelic, and drinking wine. I cried from sun up to sundown and in between worked and walked and cried into the telephone, making teary phone calls at 5 am to anyone who would pick up. I missed appointments and sat in corner seats at the bar thinking I was invisible when I was really lovely and basically had no idea what on earth I was doing.
When I was in my thirties and living in New York, trying my hand at acting and doing stuff I always said I would, I fell hard for a boy who was 23. Ah, the 23 year old boy. He was stunning. Brand new and full of ideas and dreams. An old soul, so we had that, but young and 23. Gorgeous in the way that only a new adult can be. I couldn't bear to prevent him from the starts and stops and joys and pains of my twenties, couldn't even ask that he catch up to me, do what I wanted, be where I was, and it ended as I suppose it should have. Even now, I wonder how this boy grew into a man because there was so much there already...at 23.
When my sitter calls or texts each time to say she's sorry but she had to throw up, missed her train, lost her keys, just cannot pull it together, I swear that this is the absolute last straw. I need someone more reliable, someone who can commit, who cares about my schedule and my needs. I DO need that still. And sometimes I ask someone else to come or trade off my kids for someone else's another day. But when someone comes down with a case of the 23's, they need compassion and they need guidance and they need love. I give the business. I do. I say things like, "You don't want to represent yourself out there like that. You don't want to prove to be untrustworthy. Your word is your bond, you have to give it sincerely." I'm right. But I also remember being and feeling so brand new and believing that everything was just as urgent and important and earth-shattering as the first baby steps of a toddler. The world was opening up. I wanted to and believed I could do anything...if I could just get out of my own way.
When the girls get there, to 23, I hope I can breathe that rarefied air with them, recall when someone gave me a break and a nudge, let me go into the world and said they'd catch me, they'd be there, they'd let me figure it out, and give them the space to fuck up so beautifully. It is a fleeting moment, special and lovely, where you can get away with just about anything. Worn like leggings with short shirts, t-shirts with no bra, high heels with everything. It's for the young. And they look so good doing it, even if they drive you crazy and leave you hanging.
(c) Copyright 2015. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Showing posts with label life lessons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life lessons. Show all posts
Monday, September 28, 2015
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Color Me Bad
I don't know if the confusion is because my husband is French or because he is older than I am, but this whole birthday party planning thing has blown his mind. The lengths we have gone to to celebrate the birth of these people with their peers in a way fit for a new millennium-born hurts the brain. I honestly cannot say when all this happened because other than roller skating and bowling parties, there was not much else, unless a trip to McDonald's or the local ice cream parlor was your thing, for a child of the 70s to do to celebrate his or her birthday. The cake was almost always made at home and looked like all the cakes at that time--lopsided, licked, amateurish (except for one friend whose mother was a cake decorator and her cakes looked like heaven). The gifts were straight from the Mattel catalog and wrapped with little attention or care. There was pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, 2 liter Cokes, Sprite, and orange or grape soda, and bowls of junk food to choke a horse. I recall lots of running around and games like Simon Sez, musical chairs, and too much balloon popping, none helium filled. Basically, birthday parties were chaos, cost was minimal, sugar was plentiful, and fun was guaranteed to be a bit Lord of Flies meets Super Friends. It didn't really involve the adults who were there just to keep everyone in the ring.
My husband recalls his birthdays celebrated with family. A favorite meal, a lovely cake or tarte. If there were others involved, there was lots of outdoor activity, enjoying nature and its beauty. Kids wore nice clothes and uncomfortable shoes. They were quiet, elegant affairs. Yeah, so...the French do everything in a more sophisticated way. Whatevs.
Our six year old peanut had us choose between a gambling establishment for littles and tweens, silly games and twee rides, jumping parlors and castles, roller skating (She's a novice and my anxiety can't take her and all her friends falling all over the rink.), and this adorable pottery painting place. With foresight that we could never have known was brilliant until the moment our wee one's toe was crushed, leaving her unable to participate in physical activities, we opted for pottery painting at Color Me Mine. We invited all the girls from her class and two other pals who do not go to school with her and pre-ordered the Party Animal package.
The Party Animal package offered a choice of five ceramic animals to paint--a unicorn, a dragon, a kitten, a puppy, and a dolphin. With the party scheduled for just an hour and a 1/2, I figured painting, cupcakes, singing, balloons, done. Ten minutes after all the girls were given their animals to paint, the first was finished. Our staff host, not missing a beat, handed out paper bags to color and design. These bags would be the packaging for the finished products, the carrying cases for the work that we, my husband and I (probably just I), would deliver once the pieces had been fired and collected.
The Party Animal package was also an apt title for our working performance art piece because once these girls were set free from their own parental confines and rules, they let it loose! No matter that we were in an establishment with other people trying to get their creativity on painting plates and cups and ceramic tchtotchkes that said LOVE or were shaped like Winnie the Pooh, these animals were here to party! We served carrots and strawberries and pretzels, had juice boxes and water, and at the end of the fete we all sang "happy birthday" to my daughter standing before a line of mini-cupcakes (vanilla with vanilla frosting) decorated with candles that spelled out "happy birthday." (How apropos.)
The goodie bags I'd put together a few days earlier had fun craft stuffs, stickers, sidewalk chalk, and just one piece of candy (I'm not crazy about sending kids off into the world hopped up on sugary BS but I have no problem searching for grape soda if my oldest says she wants to taste it. Go figure. Hypocrisies of parenting.) Our baby said that her special day, celebrated one month after her actual birthday because of our Spring Break travel, was the best day ever. She has lots of those. Best days ever. My work is done.
...and yet. It sits funny with me this way of celebrating a birthday. True, it was my choice to have the party outside of my home, to turn it into an event, to pay someone else to do what I was unable or unwilling to do. I have had many birthday parties in the house and all of them involved projects. There was a shoe decorating party, tie-dye t-shirt party, princess party with costumes and crown decorating. It has been incredibly difficult for me to let go of the reins and let someone else take over and not because I am a control freak (or not only because of that), but because I have a hard time giving myself permission to not be everything at all times to my children. To everyone really. When I am tired, when I say I am spent, when I say I can't go on, can't do it, I still do. When I say no about something, I try to find a way to surprise a yes. Letting someone else run the party, handle the details and the minutia, put out the fires, and clean up the mess means my role has to change. It means that I cannot hide in the rush of the activity but have to stand stock in the center of it all and just be.
There are so many parties, birthday and other celebrations that have so much fanfare. I recall fabulous birthday parties for the classmates of my girls in Barbados where there was swimming and grilling and clowns and music and open bar and balloons and face painting and jumping castles and costume changes and the presentation of the celebrated as king or queen for a day. It was like a circus or carnival. And now back in the States, there are trips to all sorts of places set up for kids' enjoyment--skating and jumping and driving and water sports and painting, creating, dressing up. Parents spare no expense in honoring the arrival of their little ones to the world. But I miss the chaos of a 70s birthday party, the accidentally marvelous moments as opposed to the orchestrated, manufactured fun. I miss the innocence and the surprise of celebration, the wonder of it all.
All the girl babies from the party will have a little something to remind them of their time celebrating Virginie's birthday, at least for as long as their parents choose to keep it. Our girls will add them to the rows of other memorabilia from their childhood thus far and they will rest with the satisfaction that we showed them how much we love them by feting them so marvelously. But really, the part I like best about the girls' birthdays is when I can recount for them the days they were born. They love to hear the small details, a super hot day with melting pavement and hours wrapped in blankets in the cold room for Lily and a rainy afternoon when I stared out the picture window of my hospital room knowing she was soon to arrive for Virginie. They know these parties with so many celebrants will not last much longer. They have been told that age 10 is our cut off and that we prefer smaller events with just special friends to massive, all out galas.
I'm not crazy about celebrating like that, fearful that using money and gifts and grand events to show how I love them diminishes the greater truth. I want them to feel honored by how we love one another, to know it no matter what I have to give or don't. I want the truth to be that we love each other, celebrate each other, honor each other, care for each other, and will show it with our feelings, our hearts, and our actions. I don't want to buy their happiness or let them think they are owed such extravagance at every milestone, achievement, or event. It can't be about the money. It's purpose and it's value already threatens our daily existence. It's about the love. I can dole that out and sprinkle it everywhere, everyday. And sometimes it has to be enough even on the special days.
The painted dolphin and dragon sit on the book shelf in the girls' room. They love them and had a great time at the party. Right before bed, Virginie said in the sleepiest voice, "I know you and Papa and Lily love me because you tell me every day. But also thank you for letting me have this party. It was the best day ever." And then I don't feel so bad.
(c) Copyright 2015. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
My husband recalls his birthdays celebrated with family. A favorite meal, a lovely cake or tarte. If there were others involved, there was lots of outdoor activity, enjoying nature and its beauty. Kids wore nice clothes and uncomfortable shoes. They were quiet, elegant affairs. Yeah, so...the French do everything in a more sophisticated way. Whatevs.
Our six year old peanut had us choose between a gambling establishment for littles and tweens, silly games and twee rides, jumping parlors and castles, roller skating (She's a novice and my anxiety can't take her and all her friends falling all over the rink.), and this adorable pottery painting place. With foresight that we could never have known was brilliant until the moment our wee one's toe was crushed, leaving her unable to participate in physical activities, we opted for pottery painting at Color Me Mine. We invited all the girls from her class and two other pals who do not go to school with her and pre-ordered the Party Animal package.
The Party Animal package offered a choice of five ceramic animals to paint--a unicorn, a dragon, a kitten, a puppy, and a dolphin. With the party scheduled for just an hour and a 1/2, I figured painting, cupcakes, singing, balloons, done. Ten minutes after all the girls were given their animals to paint, the first was finished. Our staff host, not missing a beat, handed out paper bags to color and design. These bags would be the packaging for the finished products, the carrying cases for the work that we, my husband and I (probably just I), would deliver once the pieces had been fired and collected.
The Party Animal package was also an apt title for our working performance art piece because once these girls were set free from their own parental confines and rules, they let it loose! No matter that we were in an establishment with other people trying to get their creativity on painting plates and cups and ceramic tchtotchkes that said LOVE or were shaped like Winnie the Pooh, these animals were here to party! We served carrots and strawberries and pretzels, had juice boxes and water, and at the end of the fete we all sang "happy birthday" to my daughter standing before a line of mini-cupcakes (vanilla with vanilla frosting) decorated with candles that spelled out "happy birthday." (How apropos.)
The goodie bags I'd put together a few days earlier had fun craft stuffs, stickers, sidewalk chalk, and just one piece of candy (I'm not crazy about sending kids off into the world hopped up on sugary BS but I have no problem searching for grape soda if my oldest says she wants to taste it. Go figure. Hypocrisies of parenting.) Our baby said that her special day, celebrated one month after her actual birthday because of our Spring Break travel, was the best day ever. She has lots of those. Best days ever. My work is done.
...and yet. It sits funny with me this way of celebrating a birthday. True, it was my choice to have the party outside of my home, to turn it into an event, to pay someone else to do what I was unable or unwilling to do. I have had many birthday parties in the house and all of them involved projects. There was a shoe decorating party, tie-dye t-shirt party, princess party with costumes and crown decorating. It has been incredibly difficult for me to let go of the reins and let someone else take over and not because I am a control freak (or not only because of that), but because I have a hard time giving myself permission to not be everything at all times to my children. To everyone really. When I am tired, when I say I am spent, when I say I can't go on, can't do it, I still do. When I say no about something, I try to find a way to surprise a yes. Letting someone else run the party, handle the details and the minutia, put out the fires, and clean up the mess means my role has to change. It means that I cannot hide in the rush of the activity but have to stand stock in the center of it all and just be.
There are so many parties, birthday and other celebrations that have so much fanfare. I recall fabulous birthday parties for the classmates of my girls in Barbados where there was swimming and grilling and clowns and music and open bar and balloons and face painting and jumping castles and costume changes and the presentation of the celebrated as king or queen for a day. It was like a circus or carnival. And now back in the States, there are trips to all sorts of places set up for kids' enjoyment--skating and jumping and driving and water sports and painting, creating, dressing up. Parents spare no expense in honoring the arrival of their little ones to the world. But I miss the chaos of a 70s birthday party, the accidentally marvelous moments as opposed to the orchestrated, manufactured fun. I miss the innocence and the surprise of celebration, the wonder of it all.
All the girl babies from the party will have a little something to remind them of their time celebrating Virginie's birthday, at least for as long as their parents choose to keep it. Our girls will add them to the rows of other memorabilia from their childhood thus far and they will rest with the satisfaction that we showed them how much we love them by feting them so marvelously. But really, the part I like best about the girls' birthdays is when I can recount for them the days they were born. They love to hear the small details, a super hot day with melting pavement and hours wrapped in blankets in the cold room for Lily and a rainy afternoon when I stared out the picture window of my hospital room knowing she was soon to arrive for Virginie. They know these parties with so many celebrants will not last much longer. They have been told that age 10 is our cut off and that we prefer smaller events with just special friends to massive, all out galas.
I'm not crazy about celebrating like that, fearful that using money and gifts and grand events to show how I love them diminishes the greater truth. I want them to feel honored by how we love one another, to know it no matter what I have to give or don't. I want the truth to be that we love each other, celebrate each other, honor each other, care for each other, and will show it with our feelings, our hearts, and our actions. I don't want to buy their happiness or let them think they are owed such extravagance at every milestone, achievement, or event. It can't be about the money. It's purpose and it's value already threatens our daily existence. It's about the love. I can dole that out and sprinkle it everywhere, everyday. And sometimes it has to be enough even on the special days.
The painted dolphin and dragon sit on the book shelf in the girls' room. They love them and had a great time at the party. Right before bed, Virginie said in the sleepiest voice, "I know you and Papa and Lily love me because you tell me every day. But also thank you for letting me have this party. It was the best day ever." And then I don't feel so bad.
(c) Copyright 2015. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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